


Distraction

by samchandler1986



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Humor, Mild Smut, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-26 17:08:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5012938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A necessary brush with Clara's working memory leaves the Doctor distracted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Right.”

“Right?”

“I’ve got access to the door security systems.”

Clara removes the hand she has cast over her eyes. “So you can get us out?”

“Yes.”

She sits up from the rock-solid prison bench, where she has been feigning sleep while the Doctor muttered and tinkered.

“What are you waiting for, then? Let’s get off this ridiculous moon!”

“I need the door security code.”

With an exasperated sigh she reburies her face in her hands. “Doctor,” she manages, muffled by her fingers, “the panel’s right there on the door. If I could remember the code we could have gotten out hours ago.”

“Right, yes, of course. But now they’re not going to _know_ we’ve escaped.”

“Excellent. If we _could_ escape. But we’re not about to do that because _I can’t remember the code_!” She is on her feet now, pacing the tiny cell. The rusty metal floor panels bounce and pop under her feet.

He sits back from his work amongst the wiring in the walls. “Think harder,” he suggests.

“I have!” she snaps. “What do you think I’ve been doing for the last four hours?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.” He thinks on. “More than that, I don’t _care_. Just tell me the code and we can leave.”

She blinks. “What are we in here for?”

“Attempted assassination of the Imperial Archduke.”

“So… am I looking at a longer sentence or a shorter sentence if I beat you to death with my shoe?”

“Clara-”

“Because I’m serious. If you ask me to remember the code again, that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Clara-”

“Don’t. Even. Think. About. It.”

Now he is on his feet and shouting too. “This is _ridiculous_. I know you’re not completely pudding-brained; you must be able to recall a short alphanumeric you were exposed to mere hours ago!”

“Oh-ho, _I’m_ the pudding brain now? This from the man who deleted Sign Language for semaphore!”

“That’s completely different-”

“What was the name of the guide who got us into this mess, eh?”

His scowl deepens. “Why would I know that?”

“Because she told us her name, mere hours ago!”

“That was hardly relevant information though, Clara-”

“Exactly!” she shouts, triumphant. “That is _exactly_ my point. When Huzine was showing us around the facility I didn’t think it would be relevant to remember the entry code for the prison cells!” She sighs, and continues: “Which on reflection, knowing how things normally end up with us… probably was a bit foolish.” She slumps back down to her resting place on the horrible bench.

“Well, I’m glad we’ve cleared _that_ up,” he scoffs, beetle browed. “Now, remembering the code-”

She makes a noise of frustration, reigning in a scream.

Catching her expression he continues hurriedly. “ _If_ you’ll let me finish, I was going to say, I should be able to help.”

“How?” she asks, intrigued in spite of herself. “Can you do hypnosis or something?”

“Or something.” He sits next to her on the bench, turning to face her. She tries not to flinch under the sudden intensity of his gaze. “With your permission?”

Long fingers ghost across her temples. A strangely tender gesture, all things considered. “No rummaging around for things that aren’t relevant,” she orders.

For once he doesn’t sneer. “I promise.”

“Okay, then-”

The cell around them dissolves; the walls disappearing in a stream of colour, reforming. They are standing on the other side of the cell door once again, the remade world a strange palette of muted colours.

“Okay,” she says, “this is a bit weird.”

“Yes,” her own mouth replies. “It is a bit.”

She draws in a shaking breath. “Are you _me?_ ”

“Within this memory, yes. Don’t worry. In the real world we’re still sitting on the bench.”

“Oh _good_.”

“Now, go over to the door.”

It doesn’t require walking. The second she _thinks_ about the door, she is standing in front of it, at Huzine’s shoulder. Their guide’s hand is outstretched, delicate fingers poised over the digits of the door lock.

“Oh, come on. Really?” the Doctor says in her voice.

“What?”

“You _were_ paying attention. Just not to the lock.”

“What?”

“The hand, Clara, look at the hand!”

“It’s just a hand!” For it is just that: neatly manicured, dainty and human. Nothing unusual to be seen.

“The detail.”

“… what about it? It looks real.”

“Precisely! Look around you, Clara! Look at the rest of the room.”

He swings their shared avatar around, a most unpleasant sensation of no longer being in control of her body. “Oh,” she says, beginning to understand. Only Huzine stands out picture perfect; the rest of the world fuzzy, miscoloured.

She can _feel_ the edge of his irritation and confusion, bleeding through her own humiliation. He sighs with her lungs. “Go back to the door. Let’s see if we can work it out from the position of her fingers-”

The sound of a door opening interrupts his instruction.

“What was that?”

“It’s not part of the memory…”

She blinks and finds, to her immense relief, she is no longer sharing her skin. The Doctor lets go of her face, turning to the now open doorway of the cell. Framed in the lintel is none other than Huzine; sweating, sporting a bloody nose.

“You need to hurry,” says the woman shakily. “We don’t have long. I just… I couldn’t let them execute you. Not for this.”

“Glad to hear it,” replies the Doctor, pulling a still shaken Clara to her feet before they set off at a run.

* * *

“Another,” says the Doctor.

The barman nods and pours them the requested round of drinks. They stare at the drinks. They drain their glasses in unison.

“On reflection,” she says, picking at the cracked varnish of the scummy bar, “that went quite well.”

“Yep,” he agrees, “I think she’ll make quite a good Archduke, all things considered.” He burps discreetly.

Clara, not fooled, wrinkles her nose. “Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That she was going to be the leader of the revolution.”

“Nope.”

“Oh.” She catches one of the barman’s eye-stalks, and motions with her glass. He refills obligingly. “This is… quite nice,” she offers, raising her tumbler to indicate the pinkish liquid therein.

“Sweetish,” he sneers, because he can never knowingly agree with her about this sort of thing. “It’ll do.” He takes a sip, swirls the liquid, clearly stalling. She waits, too muzzy headed to do much else. “If it’s any consolation-”

“Don’t,” she warns.

“I was just going to say-”

“I know, and I’m saying don’t.”

“If she wasn’t busy fighting for her enslaved people, though-”

“Seriously? Which part of _don’t_ -”

“Alright, you’ve made your point,” he replies testily, and empties his glass. The barman’s eyestalk twitches back in their direction, looking the Doctor up and down. Apparently satisfied his customer is not yet overly intoxicated, he pours another drink.

“I’m…”she struggles to find the right word – _sorry_ isn’t quite the one she wants. “… pretty glad we got out of that cell, anyway.”

“Yes.”

* * *

“What I don’t understand,” he says, as they meander back to the TARDIS, “is how your speshies ever manages to get anything done.”

“What d’you mean? And by the way, you’re slurring.”

“I am not.” They rebound gently off an alley wall, arm in arm, fighting for navigational control.

“Yes you are. Oops!” They have clattered into a discarded cardboard box in their mutual failure to walk a straight line.

“I mean,” he says, once they have extracted themselves, “your little one track minds-”

“You see, now you sound like Missy.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. Before we found you. When she showed me your confession dial. I thought…” She blushes in spite of herself, but ploughs on. “I thought it might be for me. And she laughed and told me to ‘rise above the reproductive frenzy of my noisy foodchain.’ Or something.” It surprises her, how fresh the words are in her memory; how they still sting.

“Oh.” He scowls for a moment. “Well, she has got a point-”

“Doctor! Don’t be so…” She doesn’t trust her mouth to say ‘supercilious’ right now. “So arrogant. You’ve had enough wives. It’s not like that side of things is totally beneath you.”

“Hmmph.” Miraculously, the TARDIS appears to be parked at the end of the alleyway. With something to aim for they make swifter progress. He struggles to fit his key into the lock, however. “I’m not saying it’s not an occasional concern,” he continues. “Just not as… _pressing_ as it is for you lot.”

The TARDIS doors open and they step inside. “Well, you live for thousands of years,” she suggests. “It’s evolutionary, right? You’d have a pretty serious overpopulation problem if you found it as _pressing_ as we do.”

“Partly,” he nods, as he sends them into the vortex, “Perhaps. But it’s more than that – for a social species, it’s not all about the reproductive necessity, is it?” He flicks a few switches and frowns. “New problem,” he announces. “TARDIS won’t land.”

Clara shrugs. “Probably doesn’t want you drinking and driving.”

“Ha! Well, in that case, only one option left.”

“Oh?”

“Bed,” he explains. “Sleep it off. Good night, Clara!” With that, he disappears down the corridor, presumably to his bedroom.

“Night,” she calls at his retreating back, a little sadly.  The TARDIS click-whirs and she rubs her hand affectionately across the console. “Night to you, too,” she adds. 


	2. Chapter 2

Cold water chill does nothing but make his teeth chatter. He rests his head against the shower tiles. Frustrated, he stops the water and tries to think of other clichés. A nasty shock, perhaps? Or is that for hiccoughs?

Clara crawls in his veins, the trill of her arousal mingling with the aching need for her he carries around in his chest. “This is bad,” he tells the scowling face in the mirror. “Very bad.”

He dresses, casting off scruffy plaid and a comfortable tee shirt; armouring himself instead in sharply starched collar and waistcoat. Formality, dignity. Suitable defence against desire. This too will pass.

He’s just not sure he _wants_ it to, anymore.

With a sigh he drifts out into the corridor, vague thoughts of trying to nail down the opening sequence of _Master of Puppets_ while she sleeps off the sweet pink alcohol. He opens a door that yesterday led to a room filled with amplifiers. He blinks. The TARDIS has obviously decided to reorganise, and he is standing in an armoury he didn’t know she possessed.

“Well, I suppose I did want an axe,” he says aloud, amusing to himself if no one else.

He wanders amongst the racks of pikes and halberds, power-armour and laser pistols. This is not his space. He did not call this room into being. He wonders who did. Perhaps Ace, with her passion for explosions. Or maybe River during a longer stint aboard. The sound of whispering steel draws him out of his reverie. Cautious now, he rounds a rack labelled _Broadswords (assorted lengths)_ in handwriting he does not recognise _._ The room is more than just an armoury, it seems; there is also a practice yard attached. Clara is standing in the centre, sword unsheathed. He is about to step forward when a holographic avatar crackles into life, standing opposite his companion.

“This is security programme omega six,” it says in his voice, “do you wish to battle?”

“Who’s made _that_?” he whispers, to himself, to the TARDIS. “I didn’t make that.”

“I do,” says Clara.

“Then prepare yourself,” warns the holographic Doctor.

Clara assumes a fighting stance. Another hologram appears on the edge of the court. He raises an eyebrow at the sight of his old-young face.

“Training simulator programme indigo eight,” it says, “Clara, watch your feet.”

She shifts her weight obediently, as the security avatar raises its sword. He swings; she parries.

“Very good,” says the trainer, “Try the counterstrike we practiced.”

She nods, dodging a second swing neatly; bringing her sword around-

-to catch on the blade the Doctor himself has pulled from the rack. Steel rings like a gong. The TARDIS, perhaps sensing that the jig is up, kills the training holograms. Without their blueish glow the room is immediately darker.

“What in the name of sanity d’you think you’re doing?” he hisses.

She disengages and spins away from his reach, keeping him on-point. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Playing solider,” he says angrily. “What is this place? Did you make it?”

“No,” she laughs. “Don’t be silly. I found it, ages ago. After Sherwood Forest.”

“What?”

“I thought it’d be fun,” she says, still in her fighting stance. “After seeing you with your spoon. And when the holograms appeared I thought… well, I thought you knew.”

“I’ve never seen this place,” he admits, “I didn’t know it was here.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widen, appreciating the scale of this admission. “Well, I guess the TARDIS must have found it for me.” He finds that notion very unsettling. It’s not often the old girl makes a direct intervention like this. Clara knocks the end of his blade with her sword, smiling; oblivious to his distress. “Go on. You’re itching to beat me. I know it.”

He brings his guard up in spite of himself, and nods.

She attacks straight away; an obvious feint he easily blocks. Another similarly telegraphed strike to the opposite side follows. He grins, and is then forced to leap backward as she reverses the stroke, cutting for his centre. She was testing _him_. He wonders how long she has been training in here, and _when_.

He stops holding back, pressing the advantage of his height, his strength, forcing her backwards across the floor. She drops and rolls; he spins to catch her counter-attack. Their blades lock at the hilt, bringing them body to body for a moment. Clara is smaller, lighter; she cannot hold his sword like this for long. She jerks free, backing away to circle, searching for a new opening.

He swings again, forcing her to stop his blade once, twice, three times. She is sweating with the effort of defence. A battle of stamina is not one she can win against a Time Lord. Sensing this, she attacks, trying to get inside his guard and force him to concede. He blocks, holding her blade at bay close to his body again. She meets his eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she strains nonetheless to land her blow. He resists, understanding that this is a different sort of test now; a measure of how long she can hold out against him. It’s a human trait−one he’s never really understood− but he is content to stay, repelling her strength. The opposite but equal force.  He loves her most in moments like this, he realises; hearts thumping painfully at the thought.

Perhaps she can see it in his eyes. He stops resisting in the instant she does, their swords clattering to the floor together. Her mouth hungrily captures his. White knuckled fists find the seams of his waistcoat, pulling him close. Something urgent and primal has been unleashed by the careless contact with her memories and he responds in kind. A hand on her back, her neck, crushing her to him.

“Clara,” he manages. It is almost a growl, delivered against her throat.

“Yes,” she answers, and he hears the echo of it in her mind, crackling through her limbs. How do humans cope, he wonders; how do they earth this electrical storm? _By giving in_ , he realises. _By_ _letting the thunder roll over and riding the lightning. Hurricane Clara._

It has a certain ring to it.

He moves backwards under the insistent pressure of her kiss until his heels meet the wall. He casts out a hand, unseeing, the other now tangled in her hair. The internal arrangements of the TARDIS are entirely mutable, of course, and he usually allows her to decide on any configuration she prefers. Right now, though, he really needs a door handle to appear under his blind fingers. She obliges; making her own opinion on this matter clear, he supposes. He twists the handle and they fall back into what is nominally his bedroom.

Clara breaks away for a moment, taking in the change of scene. “Smooth move,” she mocks. “Is this…?”

“Mine,” he affirms.

Her mouth twitches again, that strange pull at the corner when something wry amuses her. “Yours,” she says, softer; dark eyes shining. He wonders if she’s still talking about the room.

She is too close, and he is powerless to resist the aching need inside himself; pressing his lips to hers once again.  His waistcoat has somehow become unbuttoned, her warm hands crept under his shirt. There will be time, later, to savour every inch of her skin. To come to know her completely; sear her into his memory so that a thousand years from now he will still be able to recall every curve, every dimple. He can feel the complex equation of a thousand potential futures collapsing into that one inevitable conclusion. Right now is the time of urgency, of clothes shed in a clumsy hurry: only what is needed.

He closes his eyes as she undoes his belt, and pushes him gently back onto the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt a need to explore how Clara might have learnt to use a sword without the Doctor knowing, and this was the result.


End file.
